The Apache's rotors gradually slowed as Inigo guided the helicopter down toward a narrow plateau nestled between ridges. It wasn't ideal—steep drop-offs lined either side and rocky outcrops dotted the uneven ground—but it was the only suitable place for miles. The low hum of the machine's turbine engines faded as he eased the craft down, skids touching the surface with a muted clank.
Lyra braced herself against the frame, watching the terrain rise to meet them. Her knuckles were still white from gripping the console's edge. Flying was one thing—this was something else entirely.
With a hiss, the canopy popped open, releasing a gust of warm air that carried the scent of singed oil, scorched metal, and wilderness pine.
"We're out?" she asked, glancing over.
"Nearly," Inigo replied, stepping down from the cockpit. "Fuel's below reserve. Can't push it further."
